I Gave You What You Prayed, Why are You Still Complaining?

Said a "voice" in my heart, the instant I told my family that I'm feeling sheared and ripped inside. That was after I told them that the pandemic destroyed all of my "reset buttons", all of my social skills, and my ability to grasp reality so that I don't succumb into fictional world which also known as "the living underworld."

That voice was calm and contentful. It bear no judgement, or ill will, or any arrogance like "I've told you so!" that people like to usher every time you made stupid mistakes. That voice needs not to be raised, nor to be pitched up, because it itself is already perfect: it just said those 11 words exactly how the most patient being would say.

"I remember when you cried to me that day, that your thoughts torment you. It gave you sleepless night. It made all of your achievement comparable to cat shit and piss, so you only think of that as a mere blip in the space-time. I remember you felt enraged by yourself, and I remember how willing were you to ripped of that loathed self upon your weak soul.

"I gave you that; I told you it's okay to use medication. After all your basic senses can keep you survived, and I know it because I know you. I know that you will use it as a temporary solution, amid an even bigger therapy that both you and I know will happen, if it's not already happening (but you don't know don't you; you're too insensitive and too boastful of yourself to even saw it happens).

"So for these past 3 years, you don't feel angry with yourself. Sometimes annoyed, sometimes disappointed, most of the time you didn't feel even, you just keep doing whatever you must do. But yeah, you and I already knew this, that while medication will make you sleep better, and see yourself in a better way, it can make you blunt. It can make you weak.

"It can make you a human."

I stare at it, at least I think. That voice has no shape, nor colors, nor size. It doesn't reside at the ceiling, or at the wall, or on the floor. It's not really inside, but it's not definitely outside. I can't physically feel the vibration of dry air when it made any sound, it doesn't have any physical representation that I or even the brightest people on this earth can perceive. It just exists. You can't argue with it, you can't prove it like you prove the fundamental theorem of algebra.

It can make me a human. Because that's what I feel: humanity. I'm feeling stupid, small, powerless. It's easy to squash me, nothing I do can make me bigger than being a mere human, because that's what I am. In the face of that fact I'm so deeply humbled, and feel this big anguish in me.

Because without my grandiose vision, I don't even rely on myself. I know that I know nothing, I can do things but many things I can't do. The moment you become human, you don't think too much, that's my first realization. You feel, "This is life. Yes." 

The cost? I don't think as snap as I did before. I feel less energetic, less oomph, I would say. I feel, then I think when I feel to do so. I did many stupid mistakes, which I feel I need to did in order to have a better knowing of things. I don't have this sense of perfect anymore, my calculations were poorly done. I can't even eliminate variables without scribble it beforehand on a paper.

I am becoming and idiots and moodier. Like a fucking human.

For that I detest this, but for the same this I thank God.

Being human sucks. I'm so grateful I'm one.

Bandung, 22/07/23 - 00:46